Couch Potato
by rabidcrazygirl
Summary: Three vignettes about Jane's time with the CBI centered around the greatest love story in "The Mentalist"--that of Jane and the couch. With healthy doses of Jane/Lisbon and some Van Pelt/Rigsby.
1. Love at First Sight

**This story is maybe a little rambling, maybe a little weird. Just little vignettes that center around Jane and his couch. There's some Jane/Lisbon in there, as well as some Van Pelt/Rigsby, because I love them all. **

**Disclaimer: Don't own **_**The Mentalist**_** because I am a poor college student.**

When it came down to it, it was the couch. It had always been the couch.

The thing that Jane made a beeline for every morning. The place he came to think. The place he came to converse with the Elvis-stain in the ceiling. The one place he'd been able to block out the echoes of an evil laugh and a grinning, bloody face and the screams of a little girl.

It had always been the couch.

* * *

Activity and moving folders and coffee and lots and lots of government-paid police officers. That was the first impression that Patrick Jane received of the California Bureau of Investigation when he got off the elevator. He stared around, grinning like he always did—the grin that was on the outside but nowhere deeper.

He'd always liked being surrounded by energy and activity, as long as he wasn't required to be a part of it. That island of calm and observation in the sea of chaos—that was pure Patrick Jane. Always had been. Sure, he'd worked with the police before. Such collaborations had always been a way to attract more private customers, not to mention the fact that it had made his wife proud of him, made her feel less guilty and uncertain about the dubious moral decisions that were an integral part of her husband's career path. But those jobs before had always been superficial. He'd come in, he'd said a few words, he'd left. On rare occasions, he watched an interrogation or two from behind the glass.

Not this time. This Agent Lisbon and her team had the Red John case. And there was nothing superficial about the Red John case, at least not to Jane. So. Island of calm and observation it was. In his experience, people had a damned difficult time in telling an island what to do.

The couch was perfect. It was love at first sight. He spotted it across the crowded bull-pen and it was as though angels had begun singing from the heavens, heralding the dawning of the new age: the Age of the Couch. Gleaming, soft, worn, warm leather drew him in, and he drifted across the room towards it, ignoring confused agents, walking as though in a dream, the grin on his face becoming, for a moment at least, slightly more genuine.

He'd only had a few seconds to cement this newly formed bond—to sink into the glorious depths of the cushions—before he'd been cruelly disturbed by a CBI agent.

"Can I help you with anything?" The agent was a brawny Asian guy with a stony expression and half a cup of lukewarm coffee. Jane lounged back, stretching his arms along the back of the sofa.

"No, I'm good," he said, flashing his brilliant smile once again. He was impressed to see no flicker of confusion in the other man's face—this was not a man who was ever at a loss for words, probably because he used them sparingly.

"That's nice," the agent said. "What are you doing here?"

Jane laughed. "Direct. I like it." He sighed. "I'm here to see Special Agent Teresa Lisbon."

There it was—the first change in the agent's expression. His eyes flicked towards a nearby office. Jane followed the direction of the man's look and saw a closed door and Venetian blinds. A plaque by the door was emblazoned with the name "TERESA LISBON." Through the gaps in the blinds he could see a petite woman with dark hair pacing about the room with surprising energy, arguing with someone on the phone. The phrases, "...don't _need_ a consultant, we close enough cases..." and "...what makes you think I can keep him on a leash?" filtered through to Jane's ears.

He smiled again.

"That her?"

The agent shrugged and moved away without saying anything, sitting at a desk that was, compared to the desks of most police officers Jane had worked with, remarkably free of clutter. He began filling out some kind of report, working slowly and methodically. Jane ran his hands over the leather of the couch's cushions, admiring their softness and smoothness. He kicked up his feet onto the sofa and lay back, tucking his hands under his head and staring up at the ceiling. The agent made no comment on his unorthodox behavior, not looking up from the paperwork.

"Worked here long?" Jane asked, wanting to test this man's patience. The agent didn't respond, so Jane continued on his own. "Probably about five or six months, I'd guess. One of the oldest members of the team. Not that there—there isn't much of a 'team,' is there? This Lisbon, she's a bit of a rising star, but young. And a woman. And the CBI is a boys' club, so there's probably not a lot of people who are keen on working under her."

Still no response from the agent. On the other side of the office door, Agent Lisbon was getting more and more angry. Jane watched as she slammed her fist down onto a stack of files next to her computer's keyboard.

"And you look like a capable guy so you must have—what?" he continued. "Some kind of spotty track record? Not with the Bureau, but...before. People aren't sure whether they can depend on you just yet, so they stuck you with Lisbon to prove yourself." Jane shot a sidelong glance across the room and spotted the nameplate on the agent's desk. "Agent Kimball Cho."

"And you're Patrick Jane," the agent replied, still not looking up. "Professed psychic, police consultant and Red John survivor. Nice to meet you."

"There are no Red John survivors," Jane said sharply. Cho glanced at him for the first time since sitting down at his desk. "And there's no such thing as psychics," he continued in a lighter tone. Cho snorted and nodded his head. Jane looked back up at the ceiling. "Nice to meet you, too, Agent Cho," he said. "Hey...did you know there's a stain up there that looks like Elvis?"

**Keep reading for more!**

**Review, please!**


	2. StarCrossed Lovers

**This isn't one of my favorite chapters, but I feel like it had to be written. Chapter 1 was more Cho, the next (last) chapter is about Lisbon...so Chapter 2 is Rigsby and Van Pelt!**

**Disclaimer: Don't own **_**The Mentalist**_**. Just playing.**

An island of calm and observation in a sea of chaos...

"How's the report coming?"

Jane watched through slitted eyelids as Agent Wayne Rigsby leaned over the back of his chair to speak to Agent Grace Van Pelt. The consultant had to fight hard to keep a smile from curling his lips upwards—the two newest additions to the CBI team were two of his favorite targets of observation. He'd never been able to resist a pair of star-crossed lovers.

The CBI Special Crimes unit had more down-time than Jane had expected when he joined. It wasn't as though they spent weeks just sitting around on their asses, but they didn't spend every living second chasing murderers and psychopaths down darkened alleys, either. Jane spent _his_ free time (and a lot of the time when he shouldn't have been free but was avoiding work) glued to the couch. When he didn't want to be disturbed, he would often pretend to be asleep, but he had long since perfected the art of watching people through slitted eyelids. This down-time—the moments of freedom and camaraderie—were some of his favorite moments of the week. People-watching was his hobby, after all, and it was easier to people-watch when they _weren't_ chasing murderers and psychopaths down darkened alleys (or as was more likely, rushing to his rescue after he'd wrangled a confession from a less-than-happy suspect).

Cho was reading, which was no surprise to anyone. The man spent every free moment with his nose buried in a book. The book itself frequently changed as he was a freakishly fast reader, but to Jane, it didn't matter _what_ the agent was reading. Cho's habit of losing himself in another reality, of shutting out the real world and the people and problems in it whenever he had the chance..._that_ was fascinating enough. Still, more out of habit than anything else, Jane noted the title as Cho turned a page. _Crime and Punishment_. Heavy stuff, but fitting. No star-crossed lovers, though, just religion and justice and a prostitute with a heart of gold.

The agent glanced at Rigsby and Van Pelt, and Jane thought he spotted a slight eye-roll, which didn't surprise him. Cho and Rigsby were good friends, and if the big agent had told anyone about his hopeless cross, he would have told Cho.

Van Pelt, who never seemed to have free time (although this was more because she was still trying to prove herself than because everyone foisted work off on her), flashed a quick smile at Rigsby. "Fine," she said. "Just a couple more things to fill out."

"Then you'll be done for the day?"

Van Pelt nodded, the fluorescent lighting in the ceiling playing off her copper hair and making it shimmer. She smiled at Rigsby with more than just her lips—her entire body was in on the action. The sparks between the two were palpable, and it was a wonder to Jane that something didn't catch fire from the sexual tension between them. Even from across the room, Jane could see Rigsby catch his breath, build up his confidence to ask the question that could change everything: "What are you doing tonight, then?"

But he never got his chance. The door to Lisbon's office swung open and The Boss emerged, striding out into the bull-pen, five feet and four inches of barely contained energy. Cho looked up as she walked past and muttered a little, "Hey, boss," to which she replied with a distracted wave of the hand. Jane watched her make her way around desks and chairs and stacks of files to the kitchen, where he knew that she would be making herself a cup of coffee strong enough to melt the brown ceramic mug she always used.

The instant the door had opened, Rigsby had catapulted back to his desk with speed and dexterity that was impressive in a man so large. Jane wasn't able to contain his laughter this time, though he turned it into a snort at the last minute and opened his eyes, blinking blearily as though he'd just woken up.

Cho, seeing this performance, sighed and rolled his eyes again, turning another page in the book. Van Pelt was staring at the report in her hands with unnatural concentration, while Rigsby studied the surface of his bare desk.

Star-crossed lovers, indeed.

**Review, please!**


	3. Moving an Island

**Aaaaand we have our Lisbon/Jane-ness, because it's wonderful and beautiful and **_**sigh**_**. (I might have just described Simon Baker there, but shhhh.)**

**Disclaimer: you know the drill by now.**

Jane and George, the night-time security guard, were good friends, mostly because Jane was always available with a fresh set of eyes whenever George lost his car keys at the end of his shift (which usually lined up with the beginning of Jane's work day). Because the two had such a good understanding, George would occasionally open the CBI building and allow Jane to sneak in to see his beloved couch, even in the middle of the night.

Sometimes Jane felt like he and the couch were the star-crossed lovers. But that thought bordered on the insane, and so whenever it cropped up, he tried his hardest to dismiss it.

He lay against the warm, soft leather, staring up at Elvis, thinking hard and long about...nothing. Everything. Red John, his bank account, where he put his favorite tie, Red John, _God, I need more milk_, Red John...

A door-latch clicked. A pair of sensible shoes made their way across the bull-pen floor and stopped abruptly as their owner saw the person lying on the couch. Jane hoisted himself into a sitting position to look at his intruder, even though he had a damn good idea of who it was.

Moonlight-highlighted dark hair and wide green eyes. Teresa Lisbon. Boss-lady.

"Jane?" she said, more shocked than she ought to have been. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Jane grinned the grin that was on the outside but nowhere deeper—superficial, like his life before Red John. Like his life before the CBI. "I could ask you the same question," he said, deflecting. "Do you have any idea what time it is, woman? So what, were you driving past and—"

"Shut up, Jane."

"Yes, ma'am." He kicked up his feet and lay back down on the couch, folding his hands under his head. Without breaking eye contact with Elvis, he listened to Lisbon walk into her and take off her coat, slinging it over the back of her chair. He listened to her heave a sigh of—pain? Frustration? Anger?—then make her way back out into the open floor.

"I couldn't sleep," she said with more than a touch of defiance in her voice. He looked at her, saw the tension in her shoulders, the clenched jaw.

"Join the club," he said. When she snorted, he moved his legs down from the sofa cushion. "No, seriously," he said. "Sofa-club."

She hesitated, watching him with the wariness of a frightened wild animal. He laughed. "You know you want to," he teased. "Come on. It's a very small club. Not many people are allowed on my couch!"

She bit her bottom lip and regarded the bare cushion as though it might leap across the room and smother her, but finally she sat down. Jane immediately slung his legs across her lap, stretching out over the full length of the couch once more.

"Oof!" Lisbon exclaimed as Jane's legs landed. "_This_ is why it's such a small club! You've beaten everyone else to death!"

"Guilty, guilty," Jane said. Lisbon doesn't seem to have a retort, so he continues prodding, which is what he does best. "Couldn't sleep?"

He can _feel_ her tense. "Got a lot on my mind."

"I'll bet you do."

Another moment of silence. They stare into the night, each facing their own personal darknesses, each at a complete loss for the next move, sensing the timer tick on towards daylight.

"Do you come here often?"

It's Lisbon who asks, and it's Jane who laughs in response. "Are you coming on to me, Lisbon?" he jokes. She rolls her eyes, hitting his left leg lightly.

"I'm serious," she says. "I'd like to know. And if you don't answer, I'll shoot you for trespassing."

"Sounds reasonable," he nods. "Yeah. About once a week. George lets me in."

"Lets me in, too. Once or twice a month."

"It's peaceful, isn't it?" Jane asks. He's not watching the darkness now—his eyes are fixed on the woman with his legs in her lap, on her pearly skin glowing in the dark, on the green gaze burning defiance into whatever demons are plaguing her, on the mouth that is set in an expression that's half-smile, half-scowl. "I mean, without Rigsby and Cho shouting and throwing things around."

"Without you egging them on," Lisbon says, fixing him with a wry glance. For a moment, their eyes meet and the darkness flees. It's just blue gaze on green in the middle of the night, and being sleepless doesn't seem to matter anymore. Jane's mouth goes dry in a way that hasn't happened since his wife was alive. He's not totally sure, but he could almost swear that the couch has sprouted wings because it feels a little like he's flying...

Jane is the first to look away because he can feel his island of calm and observation beginning to tremble. He has to admit, though, that if anyone could move an island, it would be this woman with the glare of iron and the heart of gold.

"Want some tea?" he asks Lisbon, who is running nervous fingers through her hair and avoiding his eyes. She coughs a little.

"Yeah, I really do," she says.

"Great!" he says. "Could you make me some when you get up?"

She laughs and curses him and hits his leg, but she gets up to go to the kitchen and make the damn tea. Jane stretches out on the couch once again, staring up at Elvis, watching blackness that doesn't seem as omnipresent as it did before.

He and the couch are star-crossed lovers.

Rigsby and Van Pelt are star-crossed lovers.

Cho and his books—the escape from the world he is forced to deal with the worst of—are star-crossed lovers.

As for Lisbon...well, his island isn't going anywhere for the time being. But if she wants to try to move it (he grins a grin that's both on the outside and deeper into the heart of him), then she's welcome.

**Review, please!**


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